


Cinder and Smoke

by GreenWool, Opacity



Series: Running Dry [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWool/pseuds/GreenWool, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opacity/pseuds/Opacity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No matter what, Prim’s not getting Reaped. Neither is Rory. Him and Katniss on the other hand… they might be in trouble."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinder and Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The line moves. So does he. He doesn’t feel the needle that pricks his finger even though he watches it entering his skin. In fact, he doesn’t feel a goddamn thing but that empty, frenetic something that has haunted him ever since he can remember. He should find that peacekeeper who hit him, he thinks. He should ram his fist through his helmet. 
> 
> He hopes they call him. He dares them to.

 

The lunchpail is heavy, but Ma says he’s big enough to carry it all on his own.

 

It used to be Papa’s before it got dinged enough and the green paint was peeling in all the right places for him to need a new one. Now it’s Gale’s. He really doesn’t mind how beaten up it is. He’s proud of it, even, because it went with his dad underneath the ground where he worked, and all the things that nicked and chipped it never left a scratch on Papa.

 

The only part of the lunchpail that’s still shiny is the silver medallion on the front. When the sun hits it, it glints sharp and bright off the crest- two picks in the shape of an ‘x’ and the number ‘Twelve’. It looks just like the one pinned on Papa’s uniform. One day, Gale’s gonna wear a uniform like that. His name will even be embroidered on it, just like Papa’s, and since they had the same name, he would be just like him.

 

“Hey little man,” Papa says, and Gale jerks his eyes up from the tin box in his hands. When had he gotten so far ahead of him? “Keep up. Don’t want to be late.”

 

He hugs the pail to his chest and runs to catch up. It’s a school day- which one he’s not sure because the days of the week are all a big, fat jumble. But Papa knows, and when he asks, Papa says ‘Tuesday’. Tuesday is the day after the first day of school, and there are four days after this. Or maybe three. Papa said he goes to work when Gale goes to school- every day except Saturday.

 

Saturday Gale stays home but Papa still has to work. The hours until the big hand is on the twelve and the small hand is on the six are longer than any other hours, and sometimes it still takes Papa until the big hand is on the four or five for him to finally open the front the door. And then Gale has to go to bed so Ma and Papa can have alone time.

 

He doesn’t see why they should- Ma gets to sleep beside him every night. But Ma says that’s because she gets lonely for Papa, so he tries not to grouch about it, because if he was stuck home with a fat baby that couldn’t talk like Rory he might get lonely too.

 

The last day of the week is Sunday, and Gale likes this day the best. Ma gets up early and comes to get him too, and the both of them make enough food for the whole family. Ma needs his help cutting the sausages into little slices that Rory can eat, and also with stirring the porridge so it’s smooth and not full of lumps. Ma puts him on a chair in front of the stove and he takes the big wooden spoon from her and stirs as fast as he can until Ma reminds him to go slow. Then he stirs real slow until his arm hurts, and even a little past that, and then Ma takes over. And because Papa's not up yet, he doesn’t have to be a little man, and he can climb onto her hip and wrap his arms around her neck. Together they'd stand over the stove in the warmth of the gently steaming pot of honeyed oatmeal, and Ma might even hum a little.

 

Sometimes Ma says he’s a good helper, and sometimes she says he’s ‘the best helper’. Either one of them makes his cheeks warm, but he really prefers to be ‘the best helper’. Best is better than good, and he tries hard to remember what earns him a best over a good. When all the food is portioned out, he and Ma put it all on a plank of wood Papa fixed some handles to, and Gale carries the pot of tea slowly and with two hands up the stairs, just like Ma tells him to. Because he goes so slow he’s usually last to his parents bedroom, so when he walks in with the pot of tea Ma’s already turned to get Rory out of his basket, so it feels even more special when Papa says-

 

“You carried that up all on your own huh, little man? You’re gettin’ to be so big.”

 

Papa said the same thing today when they left for school.

 

He must be growing really fast.

 

When they get to school, Gale feels his chest get tight like it always does just before Papa leaves. He swallows hard so maybe the feeling will away. Papa squats in front of him and tugs him forward into a quick hug, and Gale is torn between dropping the pail or hugging his Papa. He never gets to make a decision, because before he’s ready, Papa is already pulling away and standing, one hand landing on his head to muss his hair.

 

“Have a good day kiddo. Ma will be here waiting when you’re out.”

 

Gale nods and watches Papa walk away in that funny way that makes Ma frown. He stays there watching Papa leave until he is too far to see. Then he turns and plods through the school yard, cold air burning at the tips of his ears and eyes. They’re still burning long after he gets to the classroom. Long after his nose and cheeks are warm again, and long after he can feel his toes when he wiggles them. But he doesn’t say anything, because Mrs. Wilbourne says it’s a special morning.

 

People from the Capitol are coming, so they have to be on their very best behaviour and not talk out of turn or wiggle around. Gale is extra careful to keep his lips pressed together hard so he doesn’t forget not to talk. He doesn’t like disappointing Mrs. Wilbourne. She’s nice, and pretty too, with big, wet eyes that are like green but not. Sometimes he stays back to help her clean up blocks or pick glue off the table. He supposes he shouldn’t keep Ma waiting, but Mrs. Wilbourne always says ‘thank you’ in that quick, almost-a-breath way that means that she was busy and really could use his help.

 

She sounds like that now when she tells them to line up so that they’re facing the door, and when she stops to fix his hair with a wet comb he can see her hands shaking. Gale swallows and turns to shush Arabelle Fernwithe who is standing next to him and whispering to Kohl Miller.

 

Arabelle’s face scrunches up tight and she pinches his arm. Hard.

 

If Papa hadn’t told him in that deep, serious voice to never hit girls, he would have.

 

Instead Gale glares at her as hard he can, even if Arabelle doesn’t look back over to see him so angry. And that’s when two things happen at once: Mrs. Wilbourne hisses his name, and the door swings wide open. Gale turns forward quickly just as a two men and three women walk in, dressed fancy and clean. There is a man whose face is pink and wide and is dressed like Papa is in the picture he and Mama have on their bedside table. The other people, dressed in bright pink and a shiny silver fabric Gale hasn’t ever seen before, call him Mr. Mayor. The last man is tall and dressed all in brown, and no one talks to him at all.

 

Mr. Mayor and the people in the shiny clothes talk to Mrs. Wilbourne and ask her questions. Mrs. Wilbourne twists her handkerchief in her hands over and over until Gale can’t stand to watch her do it anymore and he looks down at his shoes, dark and dusty against the white tile floor. His fingers are tight around the handle of the lunch pail, and he stares at the medallion on the front and hopes these people will leave soon. But then there is another pair of shoes in front of his- bright yellow with metal points on the toes.

 

“That’s a nice lunchbox,” say the yellow shoes. Gale looks up.

 

The woman who is wearing the shoes looks nice, even if she has scary pink eyebrows. He tries not to look at them as he says-

 

“It was my dad’s.”

 

The woman looks at him in surprise, and the people go quiet and still. Gale looks at Mrs. Wilbourne. She is pale.

 

Everything happens very quickly.

 

The woman with the yellow shoes stands up and walks toward the man with the wide pink face, and says something angry to him. The man’s face gets pinker, and the man in the brown suit next to him- Mr. Undersee, someone calls him- opens a book a starts flipping through the pages. The other two men shift on their feet, before one says-

 

“Well, it’s time to move on anyway.”

 

But as the men walk out the door, the man called Mr. Mayor turns to Mrs. Wilbourne and says something that makes her face go even paler.

 

And then Gale knows that he did something really bad. But it’s not because Mrs. Wilbourne’s face is so white, or because her mouth is tight and angry as she strides across the room, or even when she hits his face so hard black spots dance in his eyes. It’s because there is a woman in the hall holding a little girl with big eyes and blonde curls, and even over the ringing in his ears he hears the girl start to cry.

 

* * *

 

They’re only halfway down the shaded path into town when Posy stomps her foot and announces that she’s tired and she’s not going to take another step.  
  
 _Not even one more._  
  
His Ma has her hands in Vick’s hair again, trying to get it to lay flat, but it just won’t stay. There’s something about the boy’s hair that makes it stick up no matter how much water and spit is used to smooth it down, and their Ma’s swearing up a storm. She doesn’t mean to be so upset about things that don’t matter. Gale knows it’s him she’s actually upset about.  
  
“Posy Hawthorne,” she barks, shaking her head from side to side as she runs her fingers through Vick’s hair for the hundredth time. “That’s why I told you to eat your breakfast.”   
  
She wets her thumb by swiping it on the tip of her tongue, then squats in front of Vick and rubs away a smudge of what is either crumbs or dirt on his cheek. Vick winces and glares at Gale over her shoulder.   
  
Posy’s not tired. She’s upset because her mother’s upset. Vick is acting out because this year he finally understands what the Reapings are really all about, and he has two brothers up on the chopping block. He’s in that stage where he’d follow Gale all day if he could. He copies just about everything his oldest brother does, but Gale knows that will fade when he turns thirteen and everyone, even his cool older brother, becomes ‘stupid’. Just like what happened with Rory.   
  
But at four, Posy knows more about what’s going on than even Vick does. Because Vick knows that his two brothers might get Reaped, but he doesn’t know that Rory is angry at Gale, and Posy has known this all morning.  
  
“Come on Rolly-Posy,” Gale say as he scoops her up and set her bottom up on his forearm. She grabs his face between her hands and squeezes his lips into a ‘duck mouth’, looking very seriously into his eyes.  
  
“That’s not how you say it.”   
  
She scowls. This girl is going to break hearts one day.  
  
“How do you say it then?” he garbles out between his squished lips. For the first time today, Posy’s lips twitch upward.   
  
“It’s rolly-polly,” she says. “Say it. Rooooollllyyyyy. Poooooolllyyyy.”  
  
“Rosy Polly?”  
  
She snorts and her face pinches tight, but he can see her working to keep the expression straight.  
  
“No no no,” she squeaks. “Rolly-Polly! Like the bug! If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times already!”  
  
It’s creepy how she can sound so much like their Ma. Eerie, really. But Hawthorne kids grow fast. One day they’re in diapers, and the next they’re off on their own in the woods. Gale bets his life that he’s got the future best huntress of District Twelve right there in his arms.    
  
Katniss doesn’t stand a chance, he thinks with a grin.  
  
Their Ma’s done with Vick now. He’s about as presentable as he’ll ever be.  
  
Gale pretends to look him over with consideration when their Ma’s not watching and nods approvingly. Vick beams. It feels good, that he can still do this.    
  
“We’re going to be late,” says Rory. It’s the first time he’s spoken yet today, though Gale didn’t expect much different from him. It’s Prim’s first year. He remembers being like that when it was Katniss’ first year too.  
  
“Will you put her down?” Ma says. “Girl’s got good strong legs. Let her walk on her own.”  
  
“Can’t,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks ahead. “Me and Posy are very busy right now.”  
  
Vick jogs to catch up with them, but Rory hangs back with their Ma, his eyes narrow slits focused on his freshly polished boots. Gale wants to say something to him, but he knows his little brother won’t listen to him anyway. He ignores what that thought makes him feel and bounces Posy on his arm gently. She giggles and grabs his ears.   
  
No matter what, Prim’s not getting Reaped. Neither is Rory.   
  
Him and Katniss on the other hand… they might be in trouble. He tightens his arms under Posy’s behind and ignores the burning in his chest. It doesn’t matter. All they have to do is get through this morning, this mess and then things will be different. Yes.   
  
“Busy,” Rory snorts. “You were busy last night too.”   
  
Prickling heat rushes up his neck and burns in his ears. Gale takes Vick’s hand and pretends not to hear him.   
  
“So how does it go again? Poley Oley?” he says.  
  
“No no NO!” Posy laughs. “Rolly Polly! It’s Rolly Polly!”  
  
“Who?” Rory snaps, just like Gale knew he finally would. “Who was it this time?”  
  
When he came home last night, Rory was sitting on the front porch. His hands were stained dark with waxy polish as he sat beside a kerosene lamp rubbing his boots with an old rag. His eyes darted from the shoe on his knee to his older brother’s face, where he saw what Gale was guilty of.  
  
His mouth had tightened with anger. He said nothing to Gale as his older brother mounted the stairs.   
  
“Hey,” Gale had said breezily. “Dinner ready?”  
  
Rory had frowned at the shoe in his hand.   
  
“We ate without you.”  
  
He draped the rag over his knee and unscrewed the lid on the can of wax.   
  
“Ma’s waiting in the kitchen. She wants to talk to you.”   
  
Posy claps her hands on Gale’s cheeks, jerking him out of his thoughts.  
  
“Gale is always busy,” she chirps as she molds his cheeks. Her tiny fingernails dig into his skin. “He’s got a lot to get done everyday. Everyday, around and around and around and around and around-”  
  
“That’s right Posy. He does get around,” Rory mutters.  
  
“Watch your mouth,” Hazel snaps. “Now’s not the time, Rory.”  
  
“What does that mean?” asks Vick. “How do you get around?”  
  
“It’s a joke,” Gale grunts, finally at a point where he can’t keep the anger out of his voice, even for them. “And for the record, where I was is nobody’s business.”  
  
“Yeah!” cries Posy. “Ain’t nobody’s business!”  
  
“I’m your mother,” Hazel snaps. “Everything you do is my business.”  
  
He disagrees silently.  
  
They’re approaching the square. Gale feels his pulse jump and swallows to clear his throat, which is suddenly tight. He sets Posy down and squats until their eyes are level.   
  
“Gimme me one more chance?” he says. “I’ll get it right this time. I promise.”  
  
“Ok. One more. But if you mess it up…”  
  
She draws her finger across her neck.  
  
“Rosy Posy,” he says with a slow smile. “That’s it, right?”  
  
She only rolls her eyes and huffs, but she gives him one last grin.  
  
“No, of course not!”  
  
He kisses her cheek and shrugs.   
  
“Looks like I’m hopeless,” he says and stands up. He ruffles Vick’s hair, who grins broadly at him. Gale’s undone all of their mother’s work and he’s delighted.  
  
“See you later kiddo,” he says.  
  
Hazel is watching him with teary eyes as Posy runs over to grab her hand.   
  
_“Get out of my sight,”_ she had muttered last night as he sat across from her at the table, her eyes steely and hard.  
  
As she looks at him now, he sees a very different look in her eye.   
  
He hugs her.   
  
“Ma,” he whispers. “It’s going to be ok.”  
  
She shakes her head and he knows the reason she doesn’t say anything back is because she can’t. She’s getting older. She’s scared of what will happen if it is him today. She doesn’t want to think about raising Posy and Vick on her own. She doesn’t want to have to fight to survive like she used to before he started hunting.   
  
But mostly, he knows she’s afraid that he’ll disappear. That he’ll be taken from her, and she won’t ever see him again.  
  
“Rory’s a real good shot,” he says, and he pulls away from her. He doesn’t look at her face as he does. He grants her the privacy to be scared where he can’t see her. She takes Vick and Posy and walks off quickly toward the audience. Vick can’t resist turning around to shoot him a worried look.  
  
Gale winks and he gives him a nervous grin.  
  
“I can’t fucking believe you,” Rory says as they get into line.  
  
His words sting on the back of Gale’s neck like a swarm of hornets.  
  
“Like I said. Not your business.”  
  
“Is it Madge’s business?”  
  
Gale doesn’t answer. It’s not that he doesn’t know how it would make her feel if she knew. It’s not like he’s trying to hurt her.   
  
It’s mostly that, in the moment, he didn’t give a shit. About anything.  
  
Not the Reaping. Not Katniss. Definitely not Madge.  
  
“You’re so... fucked up,” Rory spits angrily, and walks towards his section of the line to have his blood tested. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t look back.  
  
Gale stands there for a full minute watching him leave. A peacekeeper says something to him that he doesn’t hear. He prods Gale’s back with his baton but he’s so numb he wouldn’t have even felt a bullet in his back.  
  
The line moves. So does he. He doesn’t feel the needle that pricks his finger even though he watches it entering his skin. In fact, he doesn’t feel a goddamn thing but that empty, frenetic something that has haunted him ever since he can remember. He should find that peacekeeper who hit him, he thinks. He should ram his fist through his helmet.   
  
He hopes they call his name. He dares them to.

 

* * *

 

In her room Madge tries looking for herself in the mirror.

 

Somedays she sees what Gale sees.

 

_Holy shit. Your eyes are beautiful. Turn your face up. Yeah, just like that.  They’re so blue it’s crazy. Are they real? Did you get them tattooed that color? I just figured you might have._

 

White sunlight in her eyes. Gale’s fingers under her chin, tilting her face this way and that.

 

_It’s easy to be cute when no one’s ever broken your nose, Undersee._

 

His careless scoff as his index finger trailed down the bridge of her nose.

 

Not today.

 

Today the person staring back at her is just a collection of other people’s features. Her grandfather’s high cheekbones. Her father’s defiant chin. Aunt Maysilee’s pretty mouth with slightly buckteeth that give her a look of perpetual innocence.

 

 _Can you be useful and please not smile exactly like her?_ Her mother’s soft slurred voice echoes hollowly in her mind.

 

She had tried to be useful. Rolled her mother on her side when she passed out. Collected the blood-tinged needles from the floor. Watched her bathe carefully so she wouldn’t drown. Well. Most of the time.

 

She blinks as she stares hard at her reflection. What did she have of her mother’s? The woman’s inability to handle grief? Her addictive personality? Her attraction to things bent on destroying her? Without warning the image of Gale Hawthorne’s stormy eyes flash through her mind and Madge tilts her head back and laughs.

 

She laughs and laughs until she falls to her knees. Suddenly she’s sobbing on the floor as images skid beneath her eyelids: Gale, assaulting her mouth with the kind of kisses that made her lips bleed, then bruise. Sitting on the floor counting out her mother’s migraine pills for Katniss (after all, Mother only wanted morphling). The morphling vials; hidden under the floorboards, behind the toilet tanks, in bookshelves and sock drawers. Her mother, blissfully oblivious, nodding off after dinner while Madge played the piano. Eyes closed, lips puffy and blue, hair floating like a golden cloud around her still face in the bath water.

 

She always fails when it counts the most.

 

Today is her sixteenth Reaping and what did she have to show for it? Her father’s complacency to Capitol rule is equivalent to murder. Her mother is dead. Her dearest friend, one of only two people she knows for sure she loves, hasn’t spoken to her in months. And the other person—her heart skitters in her chest. The other person won’t even look at her anymore. Ever since his brother’s whipping, Gale hadn’t come within a ten foot radius of her, insisting her efforts in the rebellion no longer require direct contact with him. And Katniss stopped taking her medicine anyway, so there was no need for him to trade with her.

 

She stares at the hands curled next to her face. These, it seems, are her own. Long, fine boned, with perfectly trimmed nails.  They are a part of her that is useful. Gale had once whispered in her ear that she had perfect hands.

 

She had been ridiculously proud of this. After all, she couldn’t hunt or gut or skin prey. But she knew just how to touch him; just how to tame that raging inferno that seemed constantly blazing beneath the surface of his relaxed exterior. For awhile, when she would stare at his sleeping face, finally calm and worry free, she could convince herself that she played a role in his life beyond sexual gratification and providing medicine for the girl he really loved. And sometimes, when they planned raids on peacekeeper weapon shipments, or she pointed out flaws in his strategies or more efficient ways to smuggling food, people and information, he’d pull her under his arm and ruffle her hair affectionately. My warrior princess. How did you get so useful? He’d get this look in his eyes; a look she hoped, maybe, was just for her?

 

But when she saw Rory limping through town, his back contorting to the pull of his scars, lead by Prim, her own face marred with a whip lash; she knew better than to seek out Gale’s company again.

 

After all, he had been in her arms when his brother was whipped.

 

She rolls on her  back and pulls herself up enough to search through the drawers in her bedside table. She finds what she’s looking for - a cigarette - and a few moments later she sinks back against the side of her bed. Her body seems to be collapsing in on itself while her brain feels like it is clawing its way out of her skull. She isn’t useful to anyone. And people won’t keep you if you aren’t useful. Why is she here? What is she doing? Everything she has tried to help with, she has only made worse. Gale, Mother, Katniss.

 

_Katniss._

 

She realizes with a start that she misses her only friend. She couldn’t blame Gale for his fixation on Katniss. There was something about her that made you look twice. She had loved to watch her dark silent friend when she would sit quietly at their lunch table. So unaffected. So unintentionally genuine. Like a switch blade.

 

Madge couldn’t think of any way to be useful to Katniss anymore.   

 

Then she had the rebellion and Gale, until she didn’t.

 

Then there was her mother to keep alive, until she wasn’t.

 

And now here she is, sixteen, in a white lace dress, waiting for the Capitol to pick two more children to send home in pine boxes.

 

Madge picks herself off the floor and sits down again in front of the mirror. Her hair is askew and her face is puffy and tear stained. Today she understands why her mother loved morphling so much. How blissful it must be, not to feel anything. She traces the veins on along her forearm longingly for a moment then smacks her wrist sternly and shakes her head. Whatever. She is not a morphling addict. And despite her extensive experience with abject failure she will keep trying.

 

She brushes her hair. Dries her face. Powders her nose. She will not face the people of her district in tears. She slips on old scuffed blue leather shoes from the Cartwright’s. They’re too small and the soles are wearing thin but she refuses to buy new ones since hearing what old man Cartwright did to Delly. As if, with people’s limbs falling off and the district starving, anyone cares if their daughter is in love with another woman. As she walks to the square she decides those shoes are her own personal rebellion.

 

She stands in line waiting for her blood to be drawn and spots Katniss in leather patched trousers, a blue grey dress on top like a tunic dusting her knees. She’s herding Prim towards the other twelve year olds. Madge smiles briefly as she remembers Rory standing at her back door, shuffling with his head ducked down, asking ‘did she have any yellow candles for Prim’s birthday, cus he had the very first wild strawberries to trade?’. Rory warms her heart; he has all of Gale’s strength and so little of his anger. She hopes Prim had a wonderful birthday. Hopes her extra candle was in some way useful.

 

She walks, back straight as a whipping post, to her place a few girls down from Delly who is glancing surreptitiously at Thistle every few moments. Thistle appears captivated by Effie Trinket’s hairstyle, but something about the tension in her shoulders makes Madge think it’s a ruse.  She spares a glance at Peeta Mellark who she hasn’t seen in days. He looks drawn in on himself, much like he did directly after the fire. His eyes are sunken and his skin, ashy. She remembers him as a boy, gazing out the class window and drawing in the margins of his textbooks. He’s like a different person, this last year. She’s heard he’s engaged to Katniss now. She wonders if he’s scared for her. It’s terrifying, the idea of your loved one getting Reaped. Her eyes drift to Gale, a head taller than anyone in the square. He is dark, sullen and tense. She calculated once how many times his name must be in Reaping bowl.  Forty? Forty two? Her throat threatens to constrict and she averts her eyes.

 

The Capitol propo starts streaming it’s usual trash. Soon this will be over. Two more lambs to the slaughter and (assuming it’s not her), she can try going back to copying Capitol reports and stealing the shipment schedules.

 

Perhaps she can find a way to be useful to someone again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This. Me and my beta started messing around with what would become this fic a few months ago as we were working on RD together. It started out when we were writing some drabbles to help flesh out Gale and Madge, and then whoops. It became a story of its own. 
> 
> The scope of part two of RD will be much larger, as it will focus on Gale and Madge, and provide glimpses into D13 where Katniss and Peeta are.
> 
> Questions? Comments? Find us on tumblr :)

**Author's Note:**

> So. My beta and I started this months ago as just a few drabbles, some conversations about what else was happening in this world, and some speculation about who Madge is as a character, and who Gale was. And then.... It spiraled out of control. Especially after we shared more drabbles, imagined the Games and the war and the revolution... Sigh. It was almost inevitable. 
> 
> The scope of this fic will be much larger than RD, and will feature Gale and Madge, and Katniss and Peeta. 
> 
> For more on CNS, find us on tumblr :)


End file.
